


i was a choice

by mchonda



Series: rare pairs: newsies edition [1]
Category: Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: After the Rally, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Swearing, based on jeremy's jack btw, homophobia doesn't exist in my newsies world lul, it's also all in lowercase bc i have an aesthetic people, kath plays a minor role, so much of it, this wasn't supposed to be spot/jack but these little shits had other idea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-22
Updated: 2019-05-22
Packaged: 2020-03-09 12:55:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18917455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mchonda/pseuds/mchonda
Summary: au where it's spot that goes to jack after the newsies rally





	i was a choice

**Author's Note:**

> so i had this idea a while back and the inspiration finally hit me today. i then proceeded to bombard nea about it for six hours and it went from "two bros yelling at each other" to "oh okay they apparently want to kiss." 
> 
> this timeline ignores jack having a crush on kath and instead relies on them having been friends.
> 
> also in this world boys kissing boys doesn't matter. they suffer enough, let them kiss each other 
> 
> (back at it again with that all lowercase)
> 
> NOTE: this is updated bc i put jack having blue eyes and he doesn't, well at least jeremy's jack doesn't and it was pissing me off

when spot can breathe past his anger for the first time since jack kelly opened his dumb fucking mouth, he makes sure there’s a place for the few boys he brought to bunk in for the night. specs takes care of it, waving them to some empty bunks in the lodge, mentioning that race is off attempting to find the rather distraught davey jacobs. race isn’t who spot wants to see right now, no, he knows where to find the exact person he wants to see.

without a word to his boys, spot climbs out of the window of the room specs laid them up in and stomps up the fire escape with a tight chest and hands curled into fists. the roof of the lodging house is empty, and spot is briefly relieved because he doesn’t know what he’s going to do the moment he comes face to face with jack, and this gives him a minute to figure that out. there’s a tiny part of him that wonders if jack will even come back, but he pummels it into dust because jack will come back. if he doesn’t, spot will find him and drag his ass back.

spot sighs and removes his hat, the breeze rushing above the manhattan skyline coming to sweep through his hair and cool the sweat from the events of the day. he moves towards jack’s side of the roof, the sight of blankets and piles of papers weighted down with rocks easing the part of him that feared jack already left. jack wouldn’t leave without his fucking art, not even the small drawings that he sketches out on the back of that days’ paper. those are important to jack, maybe more important than the newsies – than _him_ – now that spot thinks about it.

spot puts his hat back on and purposely stomps out the dirt from the soles of his shoes against jack’s blankets before bending down to thumb through the papers. on any other day spot wouldn’t dare stoop through jack’s things – or anyone’s things – because when you’re stuck in a room with four other people every day of your life, having possessions that solely belong to you are sacred. spot doesn’t care for jack’s privacy right now, what he cares about is finding something that will tell him what the fuck jack was _thinking_. something to clue him in on why jack betrayed them all.

he brushes through sloppy sketches of davey and race and the other manhattan boys until one makes him pause, heart thudding in his throat. _him_. there’s one of spot, face half hidden behind a hand of cards but eyes looking straight back at him. his fingers shake as he just barely touches the charcoal, making sure the drawing is real, that at some point jack was looking at him long enough to draw this. that spot possibly watched him do it. he blinks. months ago, a too warm friday night spent getting dealt in on a game of poker by racetrack fucking higgins while jack smirked at him from across the room, a paper and pencil in his lap. no matter how many times he looked over his cards, jack would be peeking back at him, tongue caught between his lips as he scribbled on that day’s edition of the paper. spot’s mouth is dry as he contemplates folding up the sketch and selfishly hoarding it in his bunk back in brooklyn before shaking his head. no, he’d bring it up later, when he figures out what it could _mean_.  

he sighs, the sound of it weak and shaky and moves onto the next sketch, this one as rattling at the one before. and the next and the next and the next. he leans back against the roof railing and spreads the sketches out in front of him. the refuge. the bunks, heaping with more kids than it should hold. floors filled with small bodies huddled together for warmth. snyder’s large form curved over weeping kids sporting bruises that matched the club in snyder’s meaty hands. spot only ever saw the refuge from the outside, peering through the small windows to catch only a surface glance into that hellhole, but he knows that jack’s sketches bared everything spot couldn’t see. _fucking hell._

a clanking comes from the fire escape, footsteps scaling the ladder. spot’s anger is still a low growl in his chest, but the sketches in front of him keep spot from rising to meet jack with his fists. “quite a show you put on, kelly,” he says without looking up.

the noise stops for the amount of time it takes spot to take a breath before jack is back to climbing the ladder loudly. his shadow, a product of the setting the sun, falls over the drawings. then jack is bending down and sweeping away the sketches from spot’s view. “what the fuck you want, spot,” jack says, voice thick and harsh.

spot snorts something gross and ugly and pushes himself to his feet. “wanted to come find out what made the _oh so_ great jack kelly fold like a stack of cards.”

jack nostrils flare before a familiar smirk spreads across his face. “you think i’m great, eh, spot?”

spot grinds his teeth and crosses his arms, his annoyance and frustration rising up his spine. “maybe a day ago when you weren’t the jack that bent over for pulitzer and a wad of cash to bail on us.”

jack’s face twists into an expression that nearly has spot raising his fists in preparation of a fight. he shoulders past spot, rolling up the pile of sketches spot had been looking over and stuffing them into a long tube. “you ain’t got a clue what you’re on about.”

spot rolls his eyes. “your god damn right i don’t! so, why don’t you tell me what the fuck pulitzer’s holding over your dumb, empty head?”

“how do you know he’s got anything on me? who’s to say i don’t think it’s a square deal? that it’s the only way to end this strike?”

spot laughs but doesn’t feel it in any part of his body. “me, that’s who. i’ve known you for 5 years and there’s no way in hell you’d take a bribe to end something fucking important to you! you can fool a shit ton of those boys and girls, jack, but not me!”

“maybe i’ve had enough, you ever think about that?” jack says, glaring at him. “maybe i’m sick of this life and that money was finally my way out and turning my back on the strike was a small price to pay for it.”

spot wants to shove jack, knock him around the head until he stops sprouting this absolute bullshit. jack doesn’t do that; jack doesn’t fold when things get hard, when the piss poor life they lead backs him into a wall. “oh, save your dramatics for someone else. jack kelly doesn’t just walk away, he comes out swinging until he wins, especially when shit gets hard. and if it’s too much, he comes to me! so, tell me what the fuck he’s holding over you!”

jack shoves the tube of sketches to the ground, the plastic causing it to land with a loud thud. “come to you! in case you forgot, i did, and you sat on your hands until half my newsies were bleeding and crutchie was in the refuge!”

spot feels like he’s taken a club to the stomach and nearly folds over like he has. instead he pinches his lips together and looks away from jack’s heaving chest and clenched fists because the asshole’s right and spot doesn’t want to face it. he should have thrown his support behind jack the second he came across the bridge with his grandeur idea of a strike because the simple act of jack coming to him for backup should have been enough. but he didn’t and one of jack’s boys is in the one place jack would die to keep any of them from.

_wait._

spot’s head snaps back to jack who’s rubbing his hands over his face, breathing loud enough for spot to hear. “jack, what did pulitzer threaten you with?”

he can see he’s onto something in the way jack freezes with his palms at his cheeks, in the way his dumb fucking brown eyes widen to the sizes of coins. “spot-“

spot sticks a finger in jack’s face, having stepped closer to him without realizing. “half the kids are hurt and crutchie is in the refuge. no one’s got to look close to know you’d die before letting anyone get taken there,” spot says, words spilling out of his mouth faster than he can think. “tell me what he threatened you with. now, jack!”

“it doesn’t matter because no one is getting taken there,” jack says, shoving spots hand away. “none of my kids, none of yours, no one!”

spot thinks something in his chest snaps or breaks or shatters or something equally as painful because he doesn’t need jack to spell it out for him. “he threatened crutchie and the others, didn’t he? he said he’d lock ‘em all up and you got spooked.”

jack’s brow dips. he shoves spot back and spot lets him. “fuck you, spot! of course i got spooked, of course i took the deal. i call off the strike, i leave, and he leaves crutchie and davey and les and everyone alone! snyder was there, pulitzer wasn’t playing games and there was no _choice!_ ”

the thought of jack being cornered by not only pulitzer but the man who tormented jack for weeks makes spot lash out, aiming his leg to kick fiercely at the roof’s railings. he doesn’t know what to do with the boiling pool of anger in his stomach so he yells back, “i was a choice, dumbass! you knew i was on the way, why didn’t you tell me this shit was going down? it wouldn’t be the first time we went up against the refuge, jack!”

it wouldn’t. back before they were leaders of their own boroughs, thirteen-year-old kids meeting in the middle of the brooklyn bridge to trade coins from selling papers and share whatever food the other could find. until one day jack didn’t meet him, and one day turned into two and three and word came that a manhattan newsie got snatched for stealing blankets and food. spot had known it was jack before he even made the journey to the refuge that night and climbed the rickety fire escape to the one window in the whole joint. he came back to the window every friday night to pass any food or clothes he could find through the small gap into jack’s trembling hands. he didn’t stop until he heard about the governor coming to visit the refuge and he ran through the night until he was at jack’s window. they plotted into the morning and it was only days later that jack kelly somehow snuck out of the refuge and hitched a ride in governor roosevelt’s carriage. sometimes the only thing that helps spot sleep at night is knowing it was _him_ that helped jack escape.

“oh, i’m sorry, it must have slipped my mind while they were locking me away in the cellar of the world!”

spot freezes. everything in him feels cold, even his anger has suddenly been iced out. “locked away?” he says softly, slowly looking back at jack. “that’s why you were so late to the rally.”

he doesn’t know what jack sees in his face or hears in his voice but it’s enough for jack to sigh and lean back against the railing, the fight seemingly draining from his bones. “they didn’t want me getting the word out, the delancey’s were real happy to have the chance to personally lock me down with an old printing press.”

spot finds himself moving toward jack with an arm out, something foul tasting on the back of his tongue at the thought of the delancey’s getting their hands on jack, of jack being locked away from him and any friend he’s ever made. he stops himself before he does something stupid like run his hands over jack to make sure he’s not hurt, that he was left _alone._ it doesn’t seem to matter because he’s faced with a small smile and a softly spoken, “i’m fine. got more roughed up in the fight at the square.”

spot knows their fight is over. the sun has set, and the night is begging for solutions instead of more problems. he sighs and moves to sit with his back against the cold railing, tipping his head back to look up at jack. “i should have been there.”

jack breathes out and pushes aside his piles of drawings to sit across from spot. “wouldn’t have made much difference. if you did more kids would of got the snot beat out of them, snyder would probably have gotten more than just crutchie.”

spot nudges jack’s ankle with his foot before leaving it between jack’s dumb dress shoes. “i should have been there,” he repeats. “i should have followed you back over the bridge and had your back.”

it’s the closest thing jack’s getting to an apology and he hopes he knows it.

jack hooks his leg behind spot’s other ankle and pulls it forward until their feet are touching between them. for the first time since the rally spot feels like he can breathe again.

“what am i supposed to do, spot?”

spot wrinkles his nose. “fight, dumbass. they ain’t throwing anyone in the refuge, they ain’t going to lay a hand on crutchie. we’re going to win.”

“how do you think we do that?” jack says, his disbelief making spot scowl. “no ones going to listen to me now.”

spot rolls his eyes and leans forward to grab the tube of sketches. he pops off the top and shakes out the papers, throwing the tube at jack just to feel the satisfaction of jack’s yelp of annoyance. “these. we print these, get them to the right people and there’s no way they can keep ignoring us.”

jack looks away. “they’re just some dumb drawings.”

spot blinks at jack, then down at the drawings and back to jack. “just some-you.”

spot shakes his head. jack’s art is something that’s always blown spot away, made his breath catch in his throat, and he’s never understood how jack doesn’t see that too. but that’s just jack, isn’t it? he doesn’t see the way others look at his art or the way everyone leans in when he speaks. always so unaware of the way people – the way spot – revolve around him and would continue to do so for the rest of their goddamn lives if he just _asked._

“fuck you, jack kelly,” spot says, throwing aside the drawings.

“what-“

jack doesn’t get to finish speaking because spot covers his mouth with his own. he curls one hand around the back of jack’s neck and the other around his jaw and sets about getting rid of the foul taste from before. jack doesn’t kiss back for a moment, but spot refuses to stop. then, jack’s kissing back and the last five years of spot’s life suddenly make _sense_. spot’s world feels righted and steady with jack’s hands against his jaw and he really doesn’t plan on ever stopping kissing jack kelly.

until someone clears their throat. spots leans back and turns to glare at whoever interrupted them. a girl in a clean dress with her hair curled and pulled back stares down at them with an arched eyebrow that makes spot feel as if he should bow or something.

“katherine,” jack says, and spot feels a little smug at the breathlessness in his tone.

katherine, the one who wrote the story, spot’s brain reminds him. one of the good guys, he thinks until he feels jack’s hands tighten and edge spot away to stand up. spot gets up to, pushing down the dumb beating of his heart to stand at jack’s back with arms crossed. where he should have been all along.

“jack-“

“what are you doing here?” jack says, tone hard and angry.

katherine’s shoulders push back and she pulls out a ring of keys. “look, you’re pissed, you have the right. but these are the keys to the world, and do you want to print a paper or not?”

“you’re pulitzer’s daughter!”

spot feels his eyes widen before quickly schooling himself and stepping in closer to jack.

to his surprise, katherine rolls her eyes. “yes, and i’m sorry for what he did, but he would have never listened to me. i didn’t join you to spy on you or whatever you’re dreaming up. this is important, jack kelly, don’t you dare let my last name keep us from ending this.”

spot nudges jack’s side with his elbow instead of telling him he likes this girl. just a nudge to break jack out of his seemingly refueled anger. he steps back to pick up the scattered sketches and bring them to jack. “come on, you said there was a printing press down there. it’s time for a little payback.”

the air is stagnant for a few moments before jack takes the sketches and hands them to katherine. “go round up the boys, kath.”

katherine looks ready to either cry or hug jack but decides on a nod instead. “aye aye, captain,” she says with a smile and disappears back over the railing.

“I liked her,” spot says even though he didn’t want to. “she-“

jack traps him against the railing and makes him forget whatever he was saying. he thinks of jack’s drawing of him and curls his fingers into jack’s shirt, willing to hoard this boy without asking. he doesn’t need to, not when jack is telling him exactly what the picture means with his mouth high above the manhattan skyline.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> idk i might make a collection of one shots called "the events of newsies except spot is there"  
> hope you enjoyed
> 
> tumblr: willrolcnd


End file.
